


Domino

by sabriel75



Series: A Tune of Their Own [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Bars and Pubs, Crimes & Criminals, Cross-Generation Relationship, Discovery, Disguise, Drugs, Drunkenness, Gen, Police, Protectiveness, Technology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-16
Updated: 2011-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabriel75/pseuds/sabriel75
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Lestrade needs help with the Suicide Killer case, but he's not going to go begging to Sherlock after the texting stunt he pulled today.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Domino

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rodlox](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=rodlox).



The piano player looks familiar. American accent sounds familiar too. Gregory Lestrade does a double take. That face though, it is too boyishly young for someone he would know. _Unless_.

Of course, there are always the juvenile delinquents, who end up wasting his time, his team's time, now and then by botching up and doing something truly heinous. Those nights he hates the most and spends none-to-little time with the actual persons in handcuffs. He cannot stand the contrast; his mind incapable of reconciling the innocence of their faces with the horror of the crime.

He's especially grateful when he can ship them back overseas, but then again, he's back to where they would have met and really, would one of _America's Most Wanted_ be in a pub, stalking him by serenades?

A hand signal to the bartender gets him two gin and tonics and four shots of vodka, straight up. He comes often, but he hadn’t known _this often_ for the man to know his choice favorites. Lucky for him though, he’s ready to get pissed.

Stupid technology messing with his cred… _again_ , and if another reporter asks him who it is texting them, he’s going to take vacation leave. He really is, even if Donovan gets to crow.

He might hate her just as much as Sherlock at the moment. Questioning him, wanting to know why he doesn’t stop _the freak_ when she’s quite capable of figuring it out on her own. The thing is, he isn’t too sure his sergeant doesn’t have a direct tap to his psyche; she manages to push his buttons with deadly accuracy lately.

Not until the bartender cuts off the hard liquor and pushes a lager in front of him does Lestrade decide his sergeant’s not really onto anything. She’s just taking her own frustrations out on him. It bleeding doesn’t help his cause; because the other epiphany that comes with dulled senses is that they are being embarrassingly upstaged _again_ by Sherlock and he’s behaving as if he could care less.

He cares. He really, truly does. It’s just he cannot manage to summon his notorious quick rage for someone who so frequently helps them get it right. Sherlock would claim he has him conditioned to be patient now, and maybe that’s part of it too, but that’s not the all of it, not entirely.

Sappy pop lyrics sink in through his daze and Lestrade winces, because while the boy’s effeminately husky voice is suited for the song, the _listen to your heart when he is calling for you; listen to your heart; there’s nothing else you can do_ freakishly feels like a continuation of his own thoughts and life-shattering and odd tonight, so he turns on the pianist.

“Oi! We aren’t a bunch of chumps sittin’ around wonderin’ about true love here. Could you play something a bit more representative of the audience you got?”

A few, “cheers mate,” and green eyes find his half-lidded ones, falling shut from dogged tiredness and drunkenness. A wink and a smirk and she… wait, no… it’s a boy there at the piano.

Music starts up again. It’s something entirely too sober and not at all from his generation or spirited enough for this time of the night, for this slack-minded audience. The _no man is an island_ comes across as a slap to his wrist though and he gets up to leave.

John Donne has to be rolling in his grave at this rendition of his poem, or probably not, since it’s slow and reverent and the quiet lyrical quality of the words aren’t dampened at all by the tight ballad chords or the commanding voice breathing new life into them. Elton John would be so gifted to manage music as intriguing.

Lestrade stumbles out into the street, in a desperate attempt to escape. _From what?_ He isn’t sure, but between his thoughts and the music and that sexy voiced boy, the pub no longer feels like a haven from the harsh realities of his day. He’s close to crashing and buggering off home is probably the smartest thing to do now as it is.

His balance is off and he nearly falls, catching himself against a bike rack. Small but frisky hands steady him and help him turn to sit, precariously, but sitting nonetheless on the rack.

The pianist pulls away as soon as he is steadied, and Lestrade gropes his own ass, quickly checking for his wallet and keys.

“Paranoid, Inspector?” she asks.

 _She?_

He eyes her suspiciously, recognizing Irene Adler now she’s without props [piano] to hide behind and only silhouetted against the starry night. The cold air of early morning kicking his police senses into sharp focus.

“You cottoned on to my disguise faster than Mycroft. Surprise. Surprise. I am actually impressed,” she continues as she thumbs a mobile phone that looks suspiciously like his.

Lestrade pats himself down, not surprised when his hands don’t bump against his mobile anywhere. “How’d you? My password?”

She keys in a mobile number, Lestrade is certain of it, before looking up.

“You really should change it. Sherlock doesn’t appreciate you making a mockery of him even if no one would ever guess it.

“Self-denial doesn’t suit you either. Thirty-five? Really, Inspector?”

So _SherlockHater35_ is somewhat juvenile of a password, but like the lady mentioned, it’s odd enough that no one would suspect him of having it. _Except bloody Sherlock Holmes himself, the arrogant git!_

“Mind your own business and give me my phone back.” Lestrade cannot even muster enough heat to make his words come across as a command; instead he snatches it back.

She lets him take it. “I put my number in there, just in case. I have to go stateside for awhile and thought we should have a chat before I left you on your own with our boy.”

“You aren’t to be within a hundred yards of him!”

Mycroft and Irene had had a mutual-hate-at-first-sight. Although, given when they first laid eyes upon each other, it coincided with Sherlock’s booking for drug possession and murder; Mycroft might have actually been justified in his dislike for once.

“He has a restraining order against you.”

“Mycroft always thinks too highly of himself. It’s in Sherlock’s best interest for me to be involved in looking after his welfare,” she says, irritation warring with her calm tone. Her mastery of herself wins out and her features smooth into easy pleasantry, as if they were father and son walking home from the pub, keeping each other company.

“You’re too easy on him by far. He walks all over you and you let him.”

Lestrade staggers a bit against her when he grabs her upper arm, dragging her into a darkened doorway, “If you think I won’t haul your ass in and book it for violating that restraining order, think again. I don’t care what we owe you for last time; you only did it because you created the mess he got into!

“Still not certain how guilty you are in all of it, but you certainly weren’t providing us answers out of love for Sherlock or good conscience.”

“But you were,” she purrs, manhandling Lestrade in retaliation far too easily and pounding him into the asphalt harder than he felt was necessary.

And maybe it’s the concussion because he doesn’t have to feel the back of his head to know a knot’s forming there. It’s definitely not that he’s worried about Sherlock, even though why else would she be here honestly, but he peels himself slowly off the asphalt, head buzzing more from his equilibrium knocked senseless than from alcohol and warily takes in Irene’s folded arms and how she has gone from coy to closed off completely and still, he asks ”What’s this about, Irene? Don’t have time for your games. Let’s have it.”

“You care! Shit! Don’t you dare deny it, Lestrade,” she interrupts him before he can even form his disavow and he’s glad because he’s man enough to admit it. He likes Sherlock and his abilities to absorb puzzles and spit them back out whole and arranged in a way Lestrade can make sense of and work into a process that keeps the bad guys from winning. “He needs you to put him on this case.”

“Is he off the bandwagon then?”

“No, not yet. I don’t think so, but it’s only a matter of time. The desperation’s there. I can see it.”

If he didn’t think he’d hurl, he’d probably punch the wall. “Mycroft isn’t keeping him entertained?”

An angry huff is her only reply, and Lestrade has to use both hands against the wall to steady himself. “He means well, but he’s a bloody fool when it comes to taking care of Sherlock. There’s got to be someone.”

“You mean me, don’t you?”

He feels her gaze, and the disappointment he pointedly does not see when he meets her downturned smirk. “You manage him better than anybody.”

“My team hates him. They’d love nothing better than to bust him on possession. Why do you think I care, really? You saw the stunt he pulled today.”

“And you’re only now bringing it up. Heard you tell Donovan if she could tell you how to get him to stop, you would.

“You know I could hack him and you haven’t asked me once.”

“I don’t want your help with him,” Lestrade growled. “Wasn’t the one time enough?”

The memories of that night are too fresh for the amount of time that’s passed and he’s reliving them, because she’s pushing him into it. Asking all the right questions to make him think about Sherlock, how he feels obligated to keep an eye on him, that he always makes room for the genius, whenever he can and exceptions and excuses and he can’t handle this truth with a pounding headache.

“Gotta go home,” he says, sluggish but moving finally towards his flat.

“Wait.” She doesn’t move to follow him, but stands tall where she had been propped against the wall, where he let himself rest. “I don’t think your teams suspects, not yet anyways and wouldn’t it be fun to antagonize him a bit now-and-then? He’s got a massive ego.”

“That he does.” Lestrade smiles and she drops her arms, relaxing. “So tell me how he manages the mass texting.”

He regrets asking the minute she steps towards him with a cheeky grin, “You’d have to put me on retainer before I’d hand over trade secrets like that and I’m afraid… **.** ” She kisses him lightly on the mouth. “You cannot afford me.”

She waves at him backwards, halfway gone into the darkness before her mocking, “Goodnight, Inspector,” reaches him.

Lestrade thinks that went well and staggers home, already dreading what tomorrow will bring and wondering how he’ll manage Sherlock with a hangover. There’s definitely bound to be some yelling and ranting and swearing too.

His team will be pleased.

And it’s true. Sherlock’s head is a bit swelled beyond manageable and he’s begging for a dressing down lately.

Lestrade’s certain he’ll be just the man for it… _Tomorrow_.


End file.
